


the mirror that reflects

by IsleofSolitude



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), M/M, Pining, Waxplay, sexy but then angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-11
Updated: 2020-09-11
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:08:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26409229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IsleofSolitude/pseuds/IsleofSolitude
Summary: "Oh, do be careful!" Soft, cool fingers fluttered over his hands, a breath away from touching before they were quickly pulled back."S'fine angel, doesn't compare to Hellfire, and I enjoy Hellfire." Crowley lifted his hand to eye level, watching in fascination as the wax cooled and molded to his skin.Aziraphale was quiet, but his breath hitched oh so beautifully as Crowley reached for the candle.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 13
Kudos: 36





	the mirror that reflects

**Author's Note:**

  * For [doorwaytoparadise](https://archiveofourown.org/users/doorwaytoparadise/gifts).



> doorwaytoparadise posted this amazing artwork of the husbands with candles and I got a bit carried away. 
> 
> unbeta'd because i have zero impulse control.
> 
> title; There are Two Ways of Spreading Light: To be the Candle or the Mirror that Reflects it. ---Edith wharton

**the mirror that reflects it**

* * *

When Aziraphale returned from his latest assignment, he was practically incandescent with joy, though his smile and words were hidden behind tight lips as per his usual fear. Crowley had played his part and needled him until he was forced to give in and make conversation.

After several hours of drinking, he had followed the angel back to the little house, where said angel had drawn a small cylindrical object out of a pack with the utmost reverence, placing it on the modest table.

“Wassat then?”

His only answer was a smug wiggle. The angel turned to the small, struggling fire, a spill in his hand, and let the sparks catch hold. Only then did Aziraphale turn back to the small item, touching the spill to it and grinning when the wick caught fire.

Crowley let out a small impressed hum.“Flames?”

“So clever, these humans.” Aziraphale launched into the story, his time spent with tea and rituals, poetry and gardens.

Crowley listened, in love with the way the glow from Aziraphale was illuminated by the simple candle. His fingers itched to touch, but the second he did, that warmth would recede, would shrivel up and die. But other things were fair game, and hopefully a good distraction.

The flames had caused a puddle of liquid to spread, a pool of wax. It was warm when Crowley drug a finger through it, and he winced even as it cooled on him, a sensation that he instantly knew he wanted to repeat.

“Oh, do be careful!” Soft, cool fingers fluttered over his hands, a breath away from touching before they were quickly pulled back.

“S’fine angel, doesn’t compare to Hellfire, and I enjoy Hellfire.” Crowley lifted his hand to eye level, watching in fascination as the wax cooled and molded to his skin.

Aziraphale was quiet, but his breath hitched oh so beautifully as Crowley reached for the candle.

* * *

That had been the beginning.

The middle looked something like this.

As their arrangement flourished, they would spend hours together, daylight fading to dusk to shadows. Firelight would keep watch as they talked, and then eventually a candle would become necessary, would be set between them.

When all their allowed words were used up, the candle became a way to say more. Crowley would put his arm out and they would watch as patterns were formed on his flesh, listen breathlessly at his little hisses and the way Aziraphale would shift in his seat, which would lead to Crowley shifting.

Pull the design away and see it etched in his skin, until it faded away.

what didn’t fade away was the pull between them.

The conversations were kindling, and soon it was awash with fire.

It looked like Aziraphale nervously asking to be the one to pour, to bless Crowley with his attention, focus those ethereal eyes onto a demon, and create a sensation that was miles above anything Crowley had expected when he first dipped a fingertip to satisfy his curiosity.

it looked like Aziraphale asking Crowley for more, without asking, those lips and eyes working together to plead his case, until Crowley was rolling up his sleeves, shrugging off his shirts, breeches, splaying himself out for Aziraphale to play.

It looked like Crowley gifting an angel books, pastries, dinners, and candles. so many candles. scented. spiraling. tapered. those with stands, and those that stood alone. Candles that were wrapped, adorned, simple.

The middle became a bedroom, a bookshop, a chair in which Aziraphale read, alternating devoted silence and worshipful quoting, with a demon naked at his knee, wax dripping from his shoulders, cooling on his waist, an angel fingerprints’ possessive on his back, the curve of his neck, able to be left only because of the heated barrier between their skin. They liked to look at it, eyes meeting and knowing that if anything was different, bruises of the best kind would be able to show their love as well. That teeth would be able to trace their way across every inch of the other, that they wouldn’t have to let go, have to let proof hide behind deniability.

* * *

The end came with a roar, one gift knocked over by a slamming door. An angel disappeared from earth, an earth on the brink of war.

A lover left alone in a burning bookshop, realizing that all he had left was a book.

He had always thought a heart couldn’t break if you gave it away.

Wouldn’t be the first time he was wrong.


End file.
